I got my first typewriter when I was about six years old. It was an ancient black portable Underwood in a worn out black case so I could lug it around wherever I went. Of course, most of what I turned out was gibberish, but I was creating my stories even if I lacked the skills to actually get them down on paper.
The more I learned, the more of my imagination actually made it on the page. I started publishing my own version of a neighborhood paper. There were multiple issues weekly, each written expressly for a particular household. I snuck around, hiding behind bushes and in doorways listening to the goings-on in each family to gather my material. Everyone received a paper that was about them.
Becoming a writer isn’t necessarily a choice. For me it was an albatross chained to my leg that I dragged around with me all my life that refused to go away. Regardless of the direction life was taking me, I couldn't escape the need to put the words swirling around in my head on paper. I loved writing. I loved that everything I saw and heard turned into a story in my head.
I have the greatest job in the world. Everyday I meet interesting people that allow me to come into their lives and share their stories. Each story is unique and every day holds something new.
Copyright (c) 2010 Rebecca Hertz
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